***I know I won't be posting every day, but I will write in the wonderful journal I have dedicated to National Poetry month. Year three and it's almost full. I hope to share as much as I can. But I will write. Every day.
Samantha says to Theodorus Melville
as he serves a frothy cup of cappuccino
"I want to be a poet."
He smiles, tells her she can do it.
She arms herself with moleskine and pen,
inhales hard through her right nostril
to help the words come.
She wants to be a poet. As if it were easy,
like chores. Picking dry cleaning on Tuesday.
Laundry and floors on Saturday.
What shes doesn't know can't be found
in screenplay where she lives.
She doesn't know yet.
Know how to watch people.
And not be afraid to watch, be thought a
creepy stalker. A misfit. The quiet weird one.
She doesn't know to keep her moleskine
with her at all times.
Those words she wants will wake her up'at night,
keep her from sleeping in past dawn.
She wants to be a poet. Theodorus told her
she could do it, so she did. Left her husband
after she wrote a poem for Theodorus.
Maybe they lived happily ever after.
A poet's life so delightful, so clean
it could only be in a movie
She will live her life on a blank, white page.
I will color mine with words
she can only wish to own.